


She Doesn't Play Chopin

by iamamiwhoami



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Confessions, F/F, Fluff, Light Angst, Memories, Romance, Swan Queen - Freeform, Talking, married, swanqueen - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 22:47:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20881916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamamiwhoami/pseuds/iamamiwhoami
Summary: On a pleasant unpremeditated summer afternoon in New York, the architect Regina Mills concludes that her wife has never played her favourite pianist at her concerts.





	She Doesn't Play Chopin

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! First swanqueen work in english for me. I hope you all enjoy, truly. :)
> 
> I managed to finish this story due to the support of an amazing author and an invaluable friend. Thank you, V. ♥
> 
> Wish you a good reading. :)

The city is roaring outside the Boucherie and the distinguished architect Regina Mills would strangle her closest friend for a cigarette. There's a clumsy pianist trying to play a Mussorgsky piece, a poor waiter holding sneezes looking redder and dizzy by the minute, and a pompous old gentleman with a withered rose in his lapel is sucking his bronze spoon as if his soupe à l'oignon represents the what's more juicy gastronomy, the eyes under the gray eyebrows almost watering with pleasure.

Regina continues the boring eye tour through the restaurant as her siblings chatter about how to enjoy next summer in New York. She watches the ceiling fans spinning slowly; the bartender, surrounded by the lighted arsenal of drinks, tossing and picking bottles like a juggler; she counts the white bricks of the arches of the passage, the kitchen, and the toilet; and also the typographic posters and antique paintings on the walls. She dares to poke around at the customers' dishes, wondering why someone would order poached eggs with berries at lunchtime and if a very young girl knew what she was getting when she asked her mother to order escargot.

She would strangle for a cigarette and the familiar sight of her yellow apartment door in the heart of Flatiron, opening to reveal a euphoric little boy curling up on her legs, because, no matter how special her siblings may be, and she has not seen them often since the youngest moved to Cordova and the eldest continues to try to save the world one small town at a time around the globe; an intriguing question has lodged in her mind and from this she can't get rid of it, dragging her into long periods of silent reflection, even in the most inappropriate places.

“Splash wine on her face.” Sounds her brother's voice in the corner of her mind.

"Don't be mean." The sister's voice joins the sound. "Regina, darling, where are you?"

"Just a little drop, come on..." He teases. “Rub crème brûlée on her chin...”

She slaps him on the shoulder. "Stop, you impish brat!"

Regina blinks in a daze, her eyes widening at the crack of her slap and her whimpering, then narrowing, as if she needs to get used to the radiant sunlight abounding in the long, wide windows. They both watch her with deep interest, the man alternating between stroking his black beard, tapping his ringed fingers on the table and unbuttoning his red arabesque tailoring vest; and the woman waiting and sipping the white wine, curling a finger through the long coppery curls and admiring her beautiful silk jade dress in the reflection of the windowpanes.

“Zelena.” She solemnly faces her older sister. “Killian.” And then even more solemnly the younger brother. "Emma doesn't play Chopin."

They both look at each other immediately and gravely, straightening in their chairs, Killian clasping his shaking hands over the white tablecloth and Zelena swallowing the rest of the wine and clearing her throat. When it comes to Emma, there is no room for foolish mockery or the teasing the trio often exchanges with each other. Emma is serious business, even after almost six years of marriage.

“And what does it mean?” Zelena dares to speak up.

Regina narrows her thick brown eyes a little more. “Publicly, I mean.” She straightens up too, looking intrigued. "Emma never played Chopin publicly."

"Never? At any of her concerts?" Zelena arching an eyebrow.

"No."

“What about the guest orchestra concerts?” Killian drummed his fingers again on the table, probing, doubting his sister's memory. “The one in Warsaw last year, for example.”

“No.”

Zelena can't evade an incredulous laugh. “Emma is a world-renowned pianist, Regina, by now someone would have exposed such nonsense. What kind of famous pianist doesn't play Chopin? ”

"Emma never played."

“Are you sure you’re not forg...”

“I remember each one of her concerts.” Regina interrupts Killian's failed attempt, the man almost cringing at the firm tone. "I was present in all of them."

“Even the outdoor events?” Killian snaps his fingers, smiling genuinely.

“Of course!”

“I was just checking…" He shrugs. "After all, what has it been? Seven years since her first concert?”

Regina nods catratically. "Seven years in november."

“Oh dear, do you remember?” Zelena clasps her hands to her chest, closing her eyes and sighing sweetly. “What a shy young woman she was! All huddled in front of that huge piano, the theater packed with people curious about Mr. Gold's new bet...”

"That little thing in a black suit, the yellow shining hair like a lamp on her head... Do you remember how she searched Regina in the audience before she started?" Killian smiles, pouring himself the last of the bottle's wine. “I thought she would run away if she didn't find her. Poor thing, so nervous that she didn't remember her fiancée would be in the first chair... ”

"But when she played, oh, everyone was stunned..." Zelena sighs again, her face flushed with the touching memory. “It was only at this moment that I felt certain that our little sister found a special person…”

“Regina has almost completely changed her own life, she broke with mom because of her and she was there at the concert holding the child she conceived, but you only feel that certainty when Emma started playing?” Killian frowns, finding the statement too odd, even for him, emperor of oddities.

Regina rolls her eyes. "You're redirecting this conversation."

“Okay.” Zelena straightens up, stealing Killian's glass before he can annihilate the wine. "So Emma never played Chopin publicly." She gazes at the remnants of cream and tangerine zest on the dessert plate, lost, not wanting to disregard her sister's concerns. "Is that a problem, by any chance?"

“It's your sister's favourite composer, you fool! Of course it's a problem!” Killian exclaims and elbows her, making her whimper like a baby in the middle of one of the city's most expensive restaurants, which would normally upset Regina. This time, however, she sighs deeply and leans in to watch the sunny streets of noon, her siblings surprised by the absence of an expected reprimand.

“It's not a problem.” She resigns, the burgundy leather cigarette case almost calling from inside the pocket of her cream pants. "I just didn't expect to come across something about Emma that I don't even know how to interpret."

It was a long way since they met. Emma used to be silent, withdrawn, rather shy, almost a little scared for all that matters. In the discovery of everything, from the reasons she behaved this way, to healing and the unfolding of the true self, – an energetic, brave and petulant young woman – it was a long way. And after ten long years between the extraordinary first glance, the dawn of falling in love, the birth of Henry, Emma's career and the marriage, Regina thought she knew everything about her. All the secrets and memories, the mannerisms and paths, all that is inherent in the essence and all that is scenery of the mundane. To the point where she could tell by Emma's expression in sleep whether she would wake up contented and vibrant or waning and irritated.

“Isn't that a good thing? Surprises are said to end after marriage, which sounds pretty terrible." Zelena shrugs, feeling reasonable.

“You change your sweetheart every six months, Zel.” Killian laughs out loud, stealing his glass back to pick up the last few drops of wine, and Regina, exhausted from the dispute, beckons the waiter for another bottle. “Marriage is something else, there're different shades of surprises.” He shakes one hand with disdain, as if he understands the subject quite perfectly. “The need for total stability speaks louder. Secrets can be dangerous. ”

"Like when David didn't tell you he had a twin and you almost stuck your tongue in James' mouth?" Zelena replies immediately, a devilish grin on her face.

Not even Regina can resist the laughter that fills her chest when the waiter, who was approaching with the white wine, blushes and almost stutters as he asks if they wish to order anything other than drink. Killian also blushes, covering his face with his hands and sighing in defeat, almost hiding between his own thighs under the table.

"We're fine, thank you." Regina restrains herself and nods, and the waiter is kind enough to smile and leave a new napkin for her and Zelena to dry their happy tears.

"You're nothing but two vixen witches!" Killian grumbles. “My prince was a gay baby when we started dating and was afraid his parents wouldn't accept us, you know that! Foul play, ladies. But if you want to know…” He nods, pouring himself the new wine and handing Zelena and Regina a glass. "If it has finally made you smile since we arrived at the restaurant, sister, I accept my humiliation."

Regina raises her third glass and toasts them both, feeling guilty for her absent behavior. They both understood, they knew how she could be affected by anything that concerned Emma, and though doubt still erodes her, she is aware that she will never unravel the mystery if she dares not question the keeper of all her wildest daydreams. Unable to ignore their worried expressions, she insists on paying the bill, promises to visit them, invites them to stay. But as talented as she can be in hiding any kind of dismay, their siblings are equally talented in knowing she's lying.

The trio waits on the sidewalk for the taxi that will take Zelena to the airport, and Regina finally quenches her desire, the bluish smoke spreading around her as the cars wind past. Killian holds a small mirror for Zelena to admire in her fedora hat sporting a hawk feather as himself tries to adjust the gray beret over his short hair, balancing a lit cigarette at the corner of his lips.

“You should think about visiting mom.” The redhead turns to Regina, a wary emotion in her vivid eyes. “She is getting older. She wants to meet Henry." Then she gently takes Killian's suit out of her purse and settles it over his shoulder.

"Give me one plausible reason for letting her know my son."

“She's getting old.” Zelena doesn't let herself down, smiling in understanding at both beloved women. "Said you can bring Emma."

"I wouldn't go anywhere without my wife."

"Would you believe she is deeply sorry?"

“Did you come to advocate on Cora's behalf?” Regina reigns and brings her brother to the delicate subject. "Did you two come to convince me?"

“Don't be paranoid.” Killian blows the smoke over her like a naughty child. “I'm always by your side, aren't I? It's true that mom is getting old, it's true she's sorry, but I didn't come for her and I don't think you have to do anything you don't want or think is not good for your family. I am always with you."

“So am I.” Zelena sighs, approaching to soften her sister's tightly folded arms. “Your well-being is more important to me than any of mom's regrets, the same goes for my sister-in-law and my nephew. But dad misses you too. Please promise you will think about it...? ”

The yellow cab pulls up in front of them and the mustached, bald driver smiles and waves.

"For you." Regina nods in disgust. "And for dad."

Zelena accepts the terms and wraps her siblings in a tight embrace, kissing their foreheads in a sharp snap, barely ready to leave them yet. “My work in South America starts in two weeks, but I promise to try to be here for Emma's birthday.”

"She'll be happy to know." Regina smiles. “Don't take too long. And be careful. ”

"I'm always careful...!" She protests.

Killian echoes a cheeky laugh. “So careful that you almost went to prison trying to get drunk and half naked in a cathedral in Montespertoli?”

“Details, my dear, I was too young at the time...”

"It was two years ago." Regina arches her eyebrows, holding back a laugh.

“How time flies!” Zelena disguises and laughs elegantly, kissing both cheeks of each and sliding into the cab. “Goodbye, my dears! Kiss your loved ones for me, yes? ”

The car disappears brightly around the corner, and Killian and Regina look at each other with longing smiles, almost sharing the same nostalgia for being together, teasing, confiding, and certainly utter amusement. The man takes his last drag, smashes his cigarette into the sole of his battered leather boot, and deftly throws the butt into a trash can, turning to face her with unusual seriousness.

"Whatever's going on in your head, you need to talk to Emma. Didn't you teach me that talking is essential? David would never have married me if I hadn't learned that lesson."

"Please." She rolls her eyes playfully. "David has always been crazy about you. He would have made the proposal even if you remained a bearded little boy who only cared about drinking and partying."

"Then we should thank the man for put me to get my shit together."

"Thank you to the courageous hero David Nolan." She applauds, laughing gracefully.

He laughs vividly at her and puts on the sleeves of his suit, straightening the garment on his lean shoulders. "Do you think this is what love does? Put us to get our shit together?"

"I don't think it's a rule, dear." Regina raises her arms and properly folds the collar of his suit. "I thought I was losing my mind when I realized I was in love with Emma."

"You mean after meeting her for less than a day and almost waging a war with doctors and nurses for being worried about her?" His eyebrows arch with treacherous waves, but the smile betrays a youthful provocation.

"It's midsummer." She deviates from the subject. "How do you support this two-lining suede suit?"

"I live in Alaska, baby!" His laughter echoes on the crowded sidewalk. "And I'll take a stroll in Central Park before meeting the Nolans for Ruth's birthday, the day is splendid. David really wants you to come tomorrow."

"Emma has a concert in Quebec in a week, but I promise we'll come over to greet your sweet mother-in-law if she feels disposal."

"Very well." He repeatedly kisses her cheeks, almost twirling her small body in an exaggerated hug, already filled with the lack she makes in his life. "Kiss my sister-in-law and my nephew and talk to her. You know she would play Chopin on the top of the Eiffel Tower for you if you asked, don't you?"

"Yes, my dear. I know."

He walks away like an infamous artist, tapping his boots, recklessly crossing the street as he kisses the air, and that sailor smile shines around his black beard like the light of a beacon. Regina waits for the burlesque image of the boy-man to disappear in the crowd, for even Henry seems more mature than he is from time to time in his mere ten years, and decides to face the long, sunny afternoon walk to Flatiron. It is certainly one of New York's most sophisticated and exorbitant districts, but the truth is that the magnificent Mills & Swan residence building hides a warm and simple apartment amid the bright marbled luxury.

Though raised on the Mills' vast, elegant estate in the countryside, Regina has always appreciated simplicity, especially after Emma Swan got in her way. The pianist grew up in a haunting convent in the far reaches of Maine, where she learned to play, a lonely orphan throughout her life among disastrous foster homes, and the architect adapted everything to make her feel as if she had a home. As precious as it was to design their apartment, it was a delight to see the blonde choosing the yellow door, the shaggy modular sofa and the faded leather armchair, which Regina hated but bought anyway, and the nearly one hundred and seventy picture frames. sparkling to fill the house with pictures of them and the little Henry.

Henry's room gradually turned into an orange dream with miniatures of all kinds of planes, dragons, ships, dinosaurs, cars, soldiers, knights and superheroes, as well as the small musical instruments hanging on the wall beside a bookcase stuffed with books and crayon papers scattered across the floor. Like Emma on the piano keys, Henry has always been a very tactile and creative child, except that unlike her, his passions, like most children's, change all the time, and even at such a young age, his mothers encourage him to experience whatever his thirsty mind for new information desires.

The L-shaped kitchen, though generously spacious, as family cooking is a favourite activity at Swan & Mills residence, also features neutral colors, warm lights and simple utensils, Henry's drawings in the fridge and a curious little candy cabinet whose key remains with Regina, because leaving too much sugar near the other two inhabitants can result in a frantic calamity, as she likes to point out.

The living room, where the shaggy modular sofa and faded leather armchair rests, also has its space for the Pleyel French Grand Piano, a wedding gift from Regina to Emma, as well as framed newspaper clippings about concerts and projects, and for more of Henry's drawings, accessible memories of their everyday lives with a large portrait of their first-year family together over the cozy little fireplace. It became Regina's favourite place in the apartment after she discovered that Emma's insistence on the sofa and armchair had come about because her wife wished she could rest properly after the exhausting days of work in the small office filled with sketches, squares, ink and the large drawing board; and the armchair had come for Emma to sit in front of the long module and perform a miraculous massage that would take away all the stress of the worst days.

Their bedroom has, like the rest of the apartment, a large vertical window overlooking Madison Park. Regina emphasized the search for a place with many windows, another gift for Emma, who loved the sun invading through the windowpane. Growing up in this strange convent, the days were confining, atrophying into harsh sermons, in the darkness of old rooms and a suffocating library. All Regina could do for her was to give a spectacular view where clarity was welcomed, but in those secret moments where romance reaches absurdity, she wanted to give the king Sun itself into the hands of the woman she loved.

Regina crosses noisy avenues, but can't quite hear them, her mind now surrounded by familiar sounds she wants to hear as she quickens her footsteps on the sidewalk. Emma on the piano, her eyes almost closed, playing wonders. Henry laughing on the living room rug, trying to keep up with the little golden drum. The whistling whistle of the oven, but it indicates a delicious meal to be enjoyed in family. Graphite on paper in her office, bringing a new idea to be executed accurately. The muffled chaos that doesn't reach one of the top floors of the building, like a great rite of horns and tires and distant voices, unable to disturb the peace behind that yellow door and many windows.

She thinks of stopping at her favourite bookstore, where the owner, Belle, a kindly young woman with a french accent, always keeps rare copies for her appreciation before putting it up for sale, but she finds herself going right through the pane of red cursive letters. The books can wait. She almost turned a corner to have her time at the candy emporium where the widow Lucas was having fun convincing her to buy all the goodies she already knew Henry loved, and also to greet Ruby, the best confectioner and one of Emma's few friends. But she gives up at the last moment, also moving away from her wife's favourite brewery, because everything, everything can wait.

In the elevator, she finds herself humming the piece Emma has been rehearsing for the Quebec concert, so inexplicably missing after a few hours away from home. The sound of the yellow door opening is almost part of the brilliant musical composition in her thoughts, still greedy for the sounds she loves as she walks through the crowded corridor of pictures of them in the frames Emma demanded to have.

She is back to perfect balance when the piano notes echo.

_Chopin._

Nocturne no. 13 in C minor, opus 48/1.

It's a constant sound that washes all the cacophony outside that Regina feels permeated with her every time she leaves their sanctuary. Henry draws with the crayon beside her, trying to mimic what she sketches, and Emma stands shuffling around in Chopin, her loose golden hair curling, her old sweater stretching as her hands slide on the keys. She turns almost imperceptibly to the moderato and plays the Waltz in F minor, opus 70/2; then go presto to Winter Wind, the Study in A minor, opus 25/11; then allegro, vividly for the Polonaise in E flat minor, opus 26/2. And finally the private spectacle ends andante with the Prelude in C minor, opus 45.

Emma sits with her back to the piano for a moment and breathes deeply, closing her eyes as if still awakening from a dream.

"Henry, dearest." Regina gently pinches his plump ear under the bowl of fine brown strands. "It's time."

"I don't want to go." He pouts. "I already took a shower yesterday, mom."

"And in the meantime you accumulated crayon dust on your knees, sweat from your brief run this morning behind your ferret and dirt under your nails from the vase you dropped on the porch and tried to fix. Don't think I didn't notice." She gently holds the boy's chin.

Guilty, he looks away from that wise look and shrugs his shoulders. "Can I play in your bathtub?"

"I suppose so, summer is suitable for you to use it." Her grave laugh makes him uninhibited again, the little feet in grimy white socks bouncing off the sofa with enthusiasm. "But don't waste water, remember, little prince. The faster you finish, the faster I'll teach you how to draw a building in ten seconds."

As if he's about to receive an invaluable gift, Henry smiles brightly, identical to Emma's, both smiles that make Regina's heart warm and race for different reasons, and bounces happily toward her mother's suite. Regina watches him disappear through the door and turns to Emma's subtle lift from the velvety stool, as if they are finally ready to communicate directly. Emma carefully drags the faded leather chair, and this time Regina closes her eyes and breathes deeply, the same soft long fingers that played eternal melodies massaging her aching feet.

"You're early." Sounds the blonde's fun and mischievous voice.

"I was very committed to coming home." Regina snuggles, sinking into the sofa as if she might fall asleep at any moment.

"Zelena and Killian are good?"

"Naughty, chatty and healthy." She snorts. "They asked me to kiss you both, which I promise to do as soon as my body allows it." Dense brown eyes open to recognize Emma's smile. "How was your afternoon?"

"August surrendered me for an hour on the phone talking about his new book. Then I played loud enough for Henry to think I didn't hear the vase falling on the porch. Then we made peanut butter sandwiches with apple jam." She nods proudly after the satisfied report.

Emma ends the massage with a small kiss on each ankle and Regina slides into the module to kneel and lean against her, hanging tightly in her arms between the two furniture, unable to wait any longer, green eyes gleaming narrow at her. waiting for what both anxious and almost weak yearn for. The kiss seals the redone balance, the return to what belongs to her and what she belongs to, who and where for all that matters. The intertwining of the bodies, legs bent snuggling into strong thighs, the small but still ideal armchair to house them completely together. The golden hair tamed by hands at the nape of the neck and the refuge of the same fingers that play and massage, now powerful and energetic in the back and waist. The silence broken only by their gasps and Henry's muffled humming in the bedroom bathtub.

However, Regina knows she's not entirely surrendered to this link of limbs and scents and flavors; she knows that her mind is registering the burning of the woman she loves, but the connection is fragile, the same doubt pricking somewhere inside her, uncomfortable and persistent. She knows herself well enough to understand the necessity of the ultimate question, the warlike protest within her demanding an immediate answer. Why? Why Emma Swan, this great pianist, who to her is still the simple young woman she has known for over ten years, never played Chopin at any of her concerts? Why has she never gifted audiences with the works of one who was considered a genius, who revolutionized the piano and challenged centuries of musical traditions, the one considered the greatest pianist the world has ever known?

She barely notices her inner ramblings until a subtly thumb trailing gently on the edge of her lips, wiping an almost imperceptible stain of red lipstick. The verdant eyes are now wide open, aware of her, aware that something is different about the woman she knows like the palms of her hands, even more so than those palms know the keys of her piano.

"Emma..." Regina straightens, kneeling over her calves, suddenly feeling foolish in her shy reluctance. "Why do you never play Chopin at your concerts?"

Interestingly, Emma's reaction is not abrupt as she had expected, as her siblings' reaction had been, though they both tried to disguise the Boucherie. The beautiful eyes widen in honest surprise, but without hurt, without defense, only the astonishment of the unexpected. The hand that persisted on her face slips down her bare arm to reach her hands tight in her lap, Regina unused to feeling apprehensive around her, fingers gripping her fist gently. When she prepares to respond and Regina watches the slow movement of lips parting to deliver the long-awaited resolution of the mystery, however, a hurricane invades the room in swim shorts and soap-soaked hair running down his cheeks and shoulders.

"Moms!" Henry exclaims enthusiastically. "I have a mohaka!"

"It's a mohawk, honey." Regina corrects, smiling softly at the disassembling hairstyle on his head. "You are handsome."

"Nice one, kid." Emma offers a proud wink. "But you're making a mess on your mom's colorful rug."

"It's a seventeenth century persian carpet." Regina arches her eyebrows, glancing sideways at her wife's mischievous expression.

"But now I have a mohawk!" Henry insists, gritting his small teeth in euphoria. "Guys with mohawks don't follow the rules!"

Emma abruptly rises from the chair, her long fingers twisting like claws, her arms extended toward him. "But guys with mohawks still tickle!"

Nothing else is needed for him to burst out laughing and run recklessly back into the bathroom, almost slipping on the smooth floor. Emma, on the other hand, stops at the last moment, in the doorway between the living room and the suite, turning to find Regina smiling affectionately, but capturing the doubt hovering between them in her brown eyes.

"After dinner?" Her confident, youthful smile disarms the brunette.

Regina nods slowly. "Why don't you take care of this insurgent mohawk guy creating chaos in our bathroom and I'll prepare a lasagna?"

She receives from Emma exactly the same look of Henry at the promise of the design, sparkling and dazzling, and warms her heart far, far more than the mighty New York high sun, the grateful, vibrant smile spreading across Emma's face. She looks even more like Henry when she runs equally recklessly to fulfill her mission in the bathroom, leaving behind the echo of the laughter of a completely satisfied and exultant architect of her two greatest treasures.

Family dinners are probably the time to laugh and share their favorite daily lives. They can't always have breakfast together, especially when Regina has to oversee a project too early in the morning or when Emma returns almost dawn after exhausting night rehearsals with the orchestras that will accompany her at the scheduled concerts. Dinners, however, are occasional appointments, where they prepare together, play together, experiment together, until they clear together and let Henry decide between cartoons, comics or fairy tales until he falls asleep, so that the two of them remain in the quiet darkness of the apartment where the last destination, except on Emma's rehearsal nights when Regina envelops her in layers of coats and scarves and kisses her fervently before letting her go; it's the submergence of reverent glances and touches or unbridled passion between the sheets and, from time to time, just the cuddling of exhausted bodies hoping to meet again in the most intimate dreams, where no one gets tired, no one fades, where there's not even an inescapable need to stop breathing before the next climax.

This particular dinner, however, causes tremendous chills in Regina. Although noticing Chopin's absence at Emma's concerts only after many years, she never misses anything unnoticed when it comes to her wife. Her highly developed perception is in the smallest details, from the moment they sit down to feast until the moment they settle into the room.

It starts with Emma's keen eyes on her as the blonde convinces Henry to eat the asparagus before the lasagna. And when she herself savors the dish with reverent detachment, but with her eyes still pursuing Regina's, analyzing her, perhaps reflecting much on the answer she awaits. When she leans over the table to pour wine on Regina's glass, she seems to be almost amused by the inextricable tension in the architect's shoulders. Even when they enjoy together Emma's favourite dessert, cinnamon rolls, which she would normally take her time to taste with her eyes closed and screaming pleasure, she remains vigilant, searching, bright greens eyes that soothe and conspire synchronously.

Fortunately for Regina's nervous relief, Henry grumbles sleepily as she finishes demonstrating the simple drawing in ten seconds while Emma finishes washing the dishes. He had a busy day, and although he tries to resist when Regina carries him into his orange bedroom, arguing that mohawk guys never get tired, he falls asleep almost immediately to her kiss on his forehead, curling under the blanket, a lovely tight-lipped smile ending another day of adventure and joy for his young existence.

Emma is waiting for her in the living room, a tight beer in her hands on her legs crossed on the sofa and a glass of cider on the chinese coffee table. Even after so many years together, she still resembles, before Regina's eyes, a strange charm of untamed golden hair and vivid but slightly tired eyes. She waits patiently, tasting the beer, an unusual treat as she's not usually patient except when it comes to Regina and Henry. One of the familiar hands is gently raised and Regina raises hers in the same direction, as if to find the way to her, until the touch joins them and she feels the same way, legs crossed on the sofa, glass of cider in between, wondering if what will come next will be satisfying or discouraging, such as, for example, if Emma answers that she never thought about it.

She did, though. It's written in the lines of a pentagram in her eyes, sparkling when she smiles in a bittersweet way that Regina can't decide whether to rejoice or worry.

"Remember the day we met?" Her soft voice sounds whispered.

The question surprises Regina, who raises her confused eyebrows. Of course she remembers. How could she forget that lost young woman wandering with a tiny suitcase in the middle of a storm, pregnant and feverish on the side of a road surrounded by vast forest around Maine's boundaries? How could she forget about that ragged cotton slit dress and old red leather jacket — now carefully tucked in their closet — over her trembling shoulders? She could never erase from her memory the helpless, almost ghostly creature alone in the world with a child in her womb that today she thinks she loved as soon as she landed her eyes on her.

"When you helped me get in your car and covered me with your coat..." Emma went on, her eyes fixed into Regina's. "On the way to the hospital, it was playing Chopin." She sighs, overwhelmed by the intensity of the memory. "It was a Ballad. Ballad No. 2 in F Major, opus 38."

The melody echoes immediately in Regina's ears and she remembers being so utterly and inexplicably worried about the roadside girl that she didn't even bother to turn off the radio, advancing across the wet asphalt toward the nearest hospital, tearing risky curves in dangerous maneuvers and overtaking as Emma nearly raved in the passenger. She could never forget, in fact, but that doesn't stop a lump forming in her throat.

"And when you found out I could play, do you remember?" Suddenly Emma gets excited, smiling widely. "You had insisted on taking care of me and I spent a lot of time in recovery with the therapist and my broken arm. You saw me playing in the hospital chapel."

She remembers entering the chapel with a bag of chips and being moved to find Emma, with only one hand due to the immobilized arm, playing the Mazurka in A minor, opus 17/4.

_Chopin._

"Then those weird detectives, Jekyll and Hyde, came with an arrest warrant for the clocks Neal had hidden in the lining of my suitcase." The good mood fades and Emma looks dark and melancholy, almost terrified. "I was so desperate and I didn't understand why you kept fighting for me. During the two weeks I spent at the police station until they caught Neal trying to leave the country, I got depressed just at first. Because you went to visit me with the lawyer, and when I started crying on the other side of the glass and you didn't know what to say, you quietly hummed one of the Preludes on the phone, opus 28/4 in E minor, if I'm not wrong..."

Regina feels the stubbornness of tears stinging her eyes, but she focuses on taking a deep breath and nodding in acknowledgment, trying to absorb each word.

"Our first kiss!" All the excitement returns resounding when her laughter echoes in the silence of the apartment. "I was three months pregnant, but you convinced Gold to hear me play in one of his theaters. I played Fantasie Impromptu in C minor, opus 66. It wasn't the most surprising choice, but you had whistled in the bath that morning, it was... Instinct. And you got on stage and kissed me on the sound of the last note." She closes her eyes and smiles softly, immersed in one of her favorite memories.

Regina also can't avoid tenderness in her own smile. "I still don't know if Gold was more impressed by the kiss or your imminent talent, my dear."

Emma narrowed her eyes in suspense, smiling mischievously. "I bet it was the kiss. I know I was very, very impressed."

Their laughter resonates together in harmonious choir and Regina crawls to pick up the golden threads and guide her into a kiss, far more brash and bold than their first kiss, no longer an anxious experiment, a desire to unravel, but knowledge full in practice and always restless for more and more. Regina slides her now bare lips of lipstick across her chin and neck, shifting to snuggle between Emma's legs, leaning back into her safe embrace, enjoying being cradled against her chest in a steady, graceful motion.

"You know what's funny?" Emma whispered in her ear, not daring to break the peaceful atmosphere. "You put the Study 'Tristesse' in E major, opus 10/3, on the stereo when we found out that I ended up in a convent because my parents were dead and I cried in your arms until I fell asleep and again when you and Cora had the last fight and you cried on mine until you fell asleep. I don't know if it was on purpose, but you chose the same Chopin Study twice, even though mine happened on Henry's fifth birthday and yours shortly after we started dating."

Regina's heart clenches at the memory, and as if she knows the bitterness of the moment, Emma caresses her taut jaw with the tip of her thin nose, softly kissing the immediately flexed form of her severe expression, beer and cider long forgotten in the middle of Emma's words and the touches exchanged between the flood of memories that arouse all their emotions.

"Chopin sounded on our first dance, our first real date. You convinced the doctor that the birth would be quieter if I could listen a song, and you chose Chopin. Chopin was the soundtrack for both our wedding proposal and ceremony. Chopin by the fireplace when we first made love. Chopin when I played for you after everyone left the dinner to celebrate your big project at the Botanical Garden. When I hurt my hands trying to make the turkey on thanksgiving and I made a big drama thinking I couldn't play anymore, and you hummed and whistled Chopin to me every day until I healed. Whenever we fight, you lock yourself in the office and I hide behind the piano, you listen to Chopin and I play Chopin, until one of us decides to let it go and talk. And we always go back to each other... "

Regina doesn't notice the tears until Emma turns her into her arms and gently pulls it from her reddened cheeks with her thumbs, and the brunette quickly grabs and kisses her warm palms, as if revering her, her great artist, the pianist who the world applauds, but the one the world doesn't know and will never know as she does. Emma sighs at the caress and her eyes narrow, nearly breaking with Regina's, her voice a warm whisper, like music, like salvation. "When I play Chopin, _you and me_ are all I can feel and I don't want to share us with anyone else."

A sob protrudes and escapes her defenselessly, and Regina sinks her face into her chest, crying as quietly as possible not to arouse the little boy, Emma welcoming her into a tight embrace, sniffling softly as well.

And it is as if Regina finally understands this discovery as one of those things that have always existed, but that we don't name, that we don't define, that we don't scan to fit our precepts and morals, into our comfortable zones of everyday discipline, where our eyes reach of scale, because these things come from the inside out, even if in the routine, gradually expanding without shape and without permission, that transform us and our lives and lives around us, move and shape our worlds out of our hands, because they simply exist in us and from us.

Like Chopin.

Only for them.

Regina is suddenly consumed by the immensity of it all, bringing Emma to lean into a wild and dizzying kiss, crawling in the frenzy of lips and hands, bodies colliding in clusmy desire of being impossibly closer, barely allowing the pianist to breathe in the passionate despair of her fever. When the sharp painted black nails crawl over her collarbone, Emma breaks free, shivering, almost falling backwards on the spacious couch.

"Wow...!" She laughs panting. "Trying to kill me, woman?"

"I'm trying to repay and thank you and understand you, Emma Swan, even if I need to kill you to achieve my purpose." Regina laughs at her, fascinated, holding her flushed face, pushing her lightly to lie on her, her fingers carefully tracing the red nail mark on her exposed skin on the frayed collar of the old sweater. "To tear your heart out and put you on a throne and admire it forever, my precious Emma, for, as Oscar Wilde said about Chopin, _'after playing Chopin, I feel as if I had been weeping over sins that I had never committed, and mourning over tragedies that were not my own'_, I feel the same about your words to me."

"Tearing out my heart?" Emma dramatically feigns horror. "Now you're scaring me."

Regina extends the pleasurable wave of laughter, gently sliding her nose against hers, eyes closed in ecstasy. "If I tear your heart out, where would it go? Far away, like Chopin's, taken from France to Poland?"

Emma surprisingly seems to be pondering an answer to the absurd question, becoming solemn, holding her close, but with a sober and rather grim look under furrowed brows. "If you tear my heart out, it would be right here in your hands."

Regina tilts her head to look at her with inevitable commotion. "Oh Emma..."

"Don't you know?" She smiles. "_For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also_..."

"Are you a talented pianist and now also a majestic poet, my dear?"

"It's in the bible." The mischievous smile stretches. "Matthew 6:21."

"Did you just practically court me with a bible verse, Emma Swan?"

"It depends." The smile now looks almost devilish, and Regina is lost between wanting to kiss her and punish her. "Did it work?"

"I suggest you take me to bed and find out for yourself."

“What about your end-of-day cigarette?” She sparkled expectantly, teasing.

Regina arches an eyebrow. "I can always go down on the sidewalk and smoke for about twenty minutes while you wait patiently, if you prefer."

“Nevermind.” The possibility is enough for Emma to abandon the taunts, taking her firmly in her arms and carrying her into the room, lights out, just twinkling stars and distant city glimpses that never sleep faintly invading through the large windows. But the suggestion of another wild frenzy is abandoned when they fall together on the sheets, gently fumbling in the darkness, softly, careful, still absorbed in the words, the discoveries, within the truth that hadn't yet been verbalized before that conversation, but that was always there.

"Thank you my dear." Regina whispers, snuggling again in the peaceful embrace of all her torments, the keeper of all her strength, the fortress that protects without imprisoning her. "Thank you for Chopin."

She doesn't play Chopin at her spectacular concerts, but Regina is convinced that there will never be more majestic spectacle than when she plays Chopin just for them, either on commemorative dates or to celebrate great achievements.

Or even on a pleasant unpremeditated summer afternoon.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for getting here. Hope to see you guys soon. :) 
> 
> Find me on twitter: @dokkstormur


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